Death Knight
by Loremaster Loryn
Summary: What does a Death Knight see when they turn? What process is it that brings them into the arms of Arthas, The Lich King? Why do they swear fealty to this tyrant? After it was suggested to me that I publish this piece separately, I present to you 'Death Knight', a chapter lifted directly from my story 'The Northrend Chronicles' that will answer these questions.


The void was endless. Everlasting and engulfing, swallowing you whole and fully until reality bled into infinity. Disembodied, seamless and eternal do you come into being, both aware and un-.

And there is suffering in this purgatorial state, there is _so much suffering_. Your pain is everything and you are your pain. Agony rips you apart and miscreation forces you back together. Grievous is your torment, forever is your afterlife. Cutting flashes of lightning-blue punctuate every demise, greet every reawakening and you are haunted by those eyes.

Like a foetus you exist both everywhere and nowhere. Limbo is your season, unevolved and unmoving. Existence is irrelevant. Living is an illusion. Death is corrupted, it is no longer safe. You are nothing, you feel the universe and the cosmic energy tears you asunder. Limbs are rewoven, vessels spilled back in, mind is pieced together and the torture begins once more.

**_I can end this. I will show you._**

The voice, it is your lifeline and the gavel marking your death. It is within you, beside you, outwith you and is you. It calls, a beacon in the anguish, and you follow it; your guiding light come to save you from this hell. You breathe a sigh of _'yes'_ unto the world and freedom is yours.

Alone you stand, surrounded by the heavens and earth, the horizon indeterminable where they meet. The landscape is colourless and dying. An affinity is felt, your soul bleeds into it. You recognise snow.

Indefinitely you wander these planes, stretching beyond comprehension and time, your footprints never revealing your walked path. Aggressive winds, frosty and choking, cut through you as paper, it cannot harm you for you are colder. Mightier than nature, as real as the jagged thoughts spiking through your head, you tread on. Strength is returning. You are conscious. You come into being.

A figure; alone and solemn wanders before you. It is a curious image and the terrain heightens the solitude.

**_Come to me. I will show you. _**

Obeying is no question. Floating and free do you traverse the realm. The man- for it is just known who He is- never looks back. He does not notice your presence and you follow loyally, your siren in the dark. He is familiar and feared, hated and revered. The sound of each footfall echoes for an age and makes its mark in the world. His footprints are deep, they are undisturbed and they are prophesised, each step tattooed into history.

His cloak, tattered and regal, graces the ground as it drags. It picks up the snow, the chill, the importance of this non-event. Blindly you follow it over time and space.

The journey is purposeful and ongoing and this man is a guide. He will show you, you will know. The destination is near and all you can do is fall in behind the broad figure. His shoulders are burdened with great power and with great restraint does He exercise it. You are mesmerised. You are captivated.

Snow is drawn to Him, clinging magnetically, decorating Him in an aura both natural and not. His armour freezes the flakes.

After an aeon He halts. This is it, this is The Place. The termination point of your travels. He kneels and the ground shivers in anticipation.

**_You have been saved for greater destinies. I will show you._**

You move before Him, eager and wanting. He has saved you and directed you. Now He will teach. Incorporeal and artificial you are, watching as a gauntleted hand sweeps across the ice. It is here, this is The Place. Power thrums from Him as He too recognises it. He stands. You feel the build, the crescendo is starting. A shiver becomes you and you fall into hypnosis.

A third entity joins you. It is mythical and severe in Its vessel. Incongruent in Its shape and yet perfect in Its form, Frostmourne exits Its slumber. He draws It forth, revelling in the weight of the weapon, his grip held hard and fast to contain the blade's thirst. It yearns. It wants. It needs. It _hungers_. There is a pause, like that between breaths where you are neither alive nor dead and the heart stills, that holds the moment.

And then Frostmourne is at your throat.

The tip grazes your skin, that flesh which is now whole and made again. Even a brush with the blade is enough to encourage Death. And so you are trembling, you are feared for Frostmourne knows you are there, knows what you are and It wants _you._

You are therefore chosen, and you are siphoned.

There is no physical likeness to the excruciation suffered by Frostmourne. No person has yet lived to compare; and so you die by Its whim. Mere instants have passed since your death, and reborn once more do you stand before Blade and Master, a pair so well complimenting that none stand in their way. Frostmourne seduces you with your own frost-captured soul as it lingers over the metal.

The snow sticks to your body.

**_Stand forth and witness my power. I will show you._**

You gaze, caught in a trap of awe and enchantment as the dreaded sword is wielded high and struck fast into the ground.

The landscape trembles and groans. It breaks and aches as the tremors sound the earth's discord. Ice cracks in a crude web, rippling out at sharp angles from where Frostmourne holds deep. It crumbles and cracks, unable to stop this atrocity from occurring and you are blinded with wonder. Upheaval shakes the world and a new evil is birthed unto it.

She rises, her death finally at an end. Sindragosa is terrifying and grievous as she climbs from her frozen grave. The manifestation of her form was tremendous and skeletal, her very vitality pulsing mightily in her chassis. She is the embodiment of His dominion and strength. She stalks over you and you are bestowed the gift of surviving her proximity as ghastly wings spread straight and true, shadowing all who fall before her. She lords at the cliff edge, observing Icecrown in its entirety, viewing the derelict terrain.

You are struck dumb, words unable to articulate the immensity of presence you feel both before and behind you. He is proud and superior as the Broodmother takes flight in a sudden arc. Startled you rush to the icy precipice to follow only to be drawn up short by the waiting army below. There is an innumerable amount and they all follow Him.

He must be a heroic leader to have the loyalty of so many, you think, as a thousand-thousand soldiers watch the frostwyrm rush over them. Their wonder is short lived. She is horrifying and terrible as the screams she induces seamlessly harmonise with her own shrill cries. They are Turned, they are made anew, they are His and their obedience is to no other.

He is a truly great man- nay, not a man. 'Man' is too lowly, too mortal to describe Him. He is far above men, a being worthy of supreme sovereignty. Selflessly did He save you from death, kindly were you guided back to this realm by His footsteps, honestly were you shown His power and justly did He create his army equal. He is a man to be served, to be obeyed, to be loved.

He is your saviour and superior, your harbinger and protector.

**_I have shown you. Will you follow me?_**

Your answer is a solitary one, echoing in your skull and to the edges of the skies.

_"Yes, my King." _


End file.
